<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Sitron by FreckledSaint</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25430428">Sitron</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreckledSaint/pseuds/FreckledSaint'>FreckledSaint</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Personal Hans Week [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Frozen (Disney Movies)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Childhood, F/M, Family, Gen, Slice of Life</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 06:20:15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,209</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25430428</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreckledSaint/pseuds/FreckledSaint</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>If there ever were a creature that his Hans loved more than horses then Erik had not the faintest idea of what they could be.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Hans &amp; King of the Southern Isles &amp; Queen of the Southern Isles (Disney), King of the Southern Isles/Queen of the Southern Isles (Disney)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Personal Hans Week [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1838899</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Sitron</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>His mother used to say that the Westergaards were a stubborn lot. Erik remembered how she kissed his brow and, smiling, said, “Your grandfather became king in large part to his ferocious determination. He fought tooth and nail for the crown, my son, and won himself a wealthy bride from Weselton. And your father after him secured me as his lady with his stubborn, steadfast attention.”</p><p>“Then you,” said his father sternly, “used your own stubbornness to shun every princess presented to you in favor of that Hammersmed girl. I quite liked Princess Marina of Hesse-Kassel, you know; she is an exceedingly good girl, and she already gave her husband seven children: four sons and three daughters.”</p><p>“Come now, my lord,” admonished his mother. “Kristina gave us five grandsons; each one healthy, hale, and unyielding like their grandfather.”</p><p>Kristina would go on to deliver eight more grandsons, and their youngest son currently showed himself worthy of the name Westergaard. He was as relentless as a hunting hound, as sturdy as a mountain, and more bothersome than a fly on a hot summer afternoon. Most men – the founder of their dynasty, for instance – fought for glory, fame, or power; his baby, on the other hand, campaigned for a horse.</p><p>If there ever were a creature that his Hans loved more than horses then Erik had not the faintest idea of what they could be. For the past five birthdays, his son asked for a horse and each year was sorely disappointed.</p><p>Of course, his Hans was a polite little boy that graciously accepted all the presents he received but, when the birthday party was done and he was in bed, he would sleepily say, “Papa, Mama, can I have a horse for my next birthday?”</p><p>And they would pointedly avoid giving him a direct answer, instead hushing and singing the boy to sleep.</p><p>Erik wondered if in a different world – one where his beloved late mother had not sewn Hans a plush horse for his third birthday – his son would have asked for miniature soldiers or painted spinning tops or a kaleidoscope. The sons of his friends delighted whenever they were gifted these things whereas his child regularly tormented the stablemaster.</p><p>The door clicked open and in walked his darling wife. She was bidding someone goodbye in the hallway, promising to continue the conversation over supper, before turning the key and sighing. It was no secret that Kristina disliked Arendelle, and this visit just proved all her objections true.</p><p>Once she shed the cape, her face lit up at the bright piece of paper in Erik’s hand. “What is that? Is it from the boys?” She tilted her head to the side and snorted. “Is that a horse or a dog?”</p><p>“Hans sent me this letter.”</p><p>“A horse, then.”</p><p>Erik gave her the letter, watching how a smile formed on her lips as she read it. He wondered if his lady could make sense of the confusing diagram their son had drawn to explain the differences between warm- and cold-blooded stallions.</p><p>“Well,” said Kristina, smiling, “it <em>is</em> November. Hansi is as steadfast as a war drum with his wish for a colt so this is hardly surprising. He is very stubborn.”</p><p>“He is a Westergaard,” said Erik proudly.</p><p>“Yes. Yes, he is.” Arms wrapped around his neck, and he grinned at the touch of her lips against his nape. “You know, dear, I have an inkling that if we do not deliver this birthday then he shall write my parents. They do like to spoil him, after all; God knows my lord father has the means.”</p><p>The smile on Erik’s face fell and turned into a frown. His father-in-law adored his many grandchildren, but it was undeniable that the old man had a special fondness for Hans (not counting for the fact that he was named after him). Lord Hammersmed occasionally hinted to the king that he would happily raise the boy himself if given permission. “Your father would have Hans a Hammersmed. What better way to win the heart of a child than with a colt?”</p><p>“Stop being jealous,” scolded Kristina. “My father is just a wealthy old lord with too much free time these days. It pleases him to indulge his grandchildren, like it would any elderly gentleman. And if my father wanted to take Hans and raise him himself, believe me that he would have done so a long time ago.”</p><p>Erik grumbled a bit, but apologized to his lady.</p><p>“Anyway,” his wife reached for a comb and began to brush his hair, “what shall we give Hans for his birthday? What do children like these days? Trains?”</p><p>“Children do like trains, though I do not think ours will.” His friend’s son was obsessed with locomotives – they were the hot new thing in transport these days – but the king was sure Hans did not care for them. He liked ships and toy sailors better; his favorite games were chess and come-into-my-castle; he loved books about legendary knights, and knights traveled on horseback, not trains.</p><p>“Should we ask Agnarr and Iduna for advice?” said Kristina, and he thought he misheard. “I know they’re…their ‘parenting style’ is <em>unique</em> whereas ours is tried and true and (dare I say) superior. Their girls are, however, around the same age as Hans. Boys and girls hardly differ at ten. And what diplomatic visit is complete without pretending to care for their backward opinions?”</p><p>“Those girls are strange though,” he complained in a hushed voice. “They do not play together and I saw the older one thrice during this entire visit. The younger girl is always alone or with her dolls. Surely, Agnarr and Iduna do not know the tastes of children who thunder around the palace wearing colorful cloaks.”</p><p>“True, true.”</p><p>They stared at another for a few more moments and sighed. Erik opened the windows and scavenged the drawers for his pipe while Kristina sat down to flip through the daily gazette.</p><p>No sooner had he lit the tobacco than his wife had shot up from her chair and slammed her hands against the commode. The sudden movements startled him so much he nearly dropped his ivory pipe. He gingerly exhaled a ring of smoke as he watched his lady tear a page from the gazette and give it to him.</p><p>He raised a brow at it, wondering what on earth excited his sensible wife, and took another smoke when she pointed at a small column on the right side of the page. There was a clearly recycled print above the text that depicted foals and it read:</p><p>
  <strong>FOALS FOR SALE</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>No. 22 Riverside Lane, Arendelle City</strong>
</p><p>
  <strong>Mr. Jensen respectfully informs the public that he offers foals for sale. The specimens are healthy and purebred Fjord horses. The coloring is typical to the breed with dark brown snouts and black-and-white manes. Those who wish to acquire a young colt or filly are encouraged to visit the stables this coming Tuesday, where Mr. Jensen will be more than happy to introduce them to prospective owners.</strong>
</p><p>“I know we considered giving Hans a Knabstrupper the next time one of the broodmares delivers, but it is his eleventh birthday in two and a half weeks.” She pointed at the date. “Here it says that the viewing is this Tuesday, which would be the fourth. We leave Arendelle on the sixth. More than enough time to have a look.”</p><p>Erik blinked. “So, we <em>are</em> getting him a horse?”</p><p>She shrugged and smiled at him. “Would you rather have my father or brother do it? You know they can; they live in the country and have foals to spare.”</p><p>His confusion changed to annoyance, from annoyance to a low, simmering anger, and the king called for his secretary to make adjustments to the schedule.</p><p>***</p><p>Mr. Jensen was…interesting, to say the least. Physically, he looked every bit the Arendellian: heavy-set with strawberry blond hair and sky-blue eyes. What was not Arendellian or, quite frankly, European was the incessant chewing of tobacco. <em>What an American habit,</em> the king observed.</p><p>The reek of tobacco overpowered whatever equine smell that may have floated in the air. Erik saw his wife cover her nose with a handkerchief whenever the horse breeder was busy. In the man’s defense, he was under the impression that Erik and Kristina were an upper-middle-class Swedish couple. They had dressed for the part so as to avoid the unnecessary faff that came with standard royal outings, and that meant Mr. Jensen had no idea that the woman whose hand he kissed or the man into whom his daughter crashed were monarchs.</p><p>“Mr. Albertson,” said Mrs. Jensen, offering him a cup of tea, “how many children do you and your wife have?”</p><p>Erik paused. It felt strange to be addressed by his patronymic only. Then he remembered himself and bowed his head in gratitude, accepting the cup. “We have thirteen,” he answered kindly. “Mrs. Albertson has been blessed with an excellent constitution.”</p><p>“I say!” The laughing lines on Mrs. Jensen’s face deepened as she grinned. “Would it be presumptuous of me to assume that you are in search for a four-legged companion because of a child?”</p><p>“You’ve hit the mark. Our youngest, for better or for worse, is mad about horses. He is forever underfoot at the stables, much to the stablemaster’s chagrin.”</p><p>The woman laughed heartily and sympathized: her daughters were the same. They spoke merrily of the shenanigans their children were up to – something Erik found tough to do with Agnarr – when Mr. Jensen thrusted his head out of the interior stable’s entrance. “Mrs. Albertson is asking for you, Sir.”</p><p>Erik had barely entered the stables when Kristina quickly reached out for his hand, clasping it between her own. “I found it, my dear! I found the most charming little creature for our son! Just look at how wonderful it is, Mr. Albertson!”</p><p>He needed only to drop his gaze to spot a foal rubbing its head against Kristina’s skirts. It was a slender thing, with a tan coat and the trademark mane of its breed; and its refusal to leave undoubtedly pleased the disguised queen.</p><p>The king stared at the colt, then at his lady fawning over it, and turned towards the Arendellian couple. “Excuse me, may we have a moment to ourselves?”</p><p>Mr. Jensen and his wife winked at each other and took their leave. Though they shut the door behind them, Erik double-checked that it was well and truly closed. It was not becoming for a lady of high birth to be too excited in public, and he’d loathe to see Kristina go rigid in fear of an eavesdropper.</p><p>“This one, hm?” he said, petting the foal’s head. “What is so special about it in particular? I should think our son would like a white horse, like in the storybooks. There is one right there. Hans told be that, by tradition, it is an undesirable color in this breed; he followed it up by saying all horses are wonderful though.”</p><p>“I like him best,” said his wife stubbornly, “because he is the sweetest. We need a gregarious foal to get along with the pre-existing horses. The stablemaster will be livid if there is strife amidst his charges. And Hans ought to have a companion as cheerful as him,” she fed the foal a sugar cube, “is that not right, dear?”</p><p>His wife had completely lost interest in him, and Erik knew that any attempts to persuade her to reconsider would be in vain. Her mind was settled, her opinion formed, and marriage had taught Erik to listen to her (especially when it concerned their children).</p><p>So, with a warm smile and an open purse, the king of the Southern Isles called for Mr. Jensen to settle the matter.</p><p>***</p><p>The stablemaster had thrown him out of the premises. Again.</p><p>Hans grumbled and pouted as he walked across the courtyard; he could not bear to watch the horses at their exercise knowing that he cannot join them. It brought tears to his eyes seeing his brothers with their own stallions and mares while he had to badger the stablemaster whenever he wanted to ride.</p><p>The prince decided he had no choice but to lock himself in the nursery, where he promptly flung himself onto the sofa and sighed. Hans had been dreaming of a horse for as long as he could remember and he always got the same answer: “We’ll discuss it later, dearest.”</p><p>Later never came. His parents dodged his questions well, which drove him to search the palace high and low while they were in Arendelle. Klaus – his eldest brother – said that Mother wrote down every purchase and expense in her account book, so Hans naturally got curious. He hoped it might contain a telling receipt; instead it was filled with boring notes on what bonuses to give to which servant, etc.</p><p>His nanny caught him red-handed as he flipped through the accounts, which earned him a smack. She informed his parents of his bad behavior and Hans braced himself for another smack, making it all the more surprising when they brushed it off with a giggle. In fact, the nanny got a day off and Hans received a bar of chocolate that he did not have to share.</p><p>Grabbing Mandarin, his beloved plush horse, the prince walked over to the shelves located across the sofa and carelessly took out a random book to read. Hans had already read everything to be found in the nursery – he was now encouraged to seek material in the main library – but he still loved and often re-read them. Today it seemed, he and Mandarin shall be reading from a favorite: <em>The Classic Fairy Tale Treasury of the Southern Isles.</em></p><p>Hans promptly skipped to the tale of Herr Mannelig. He was especially fond of this story, and the illustrations were so pretty! The little prince smiled wistfully at the picture of a copper-haired knight standing beside a snowy white stallion. Tracing the silver sword, he hummed the melody of a ballad about the famous warrior when three quick raps at the door grabbed his attention.</p><p>The door slowly creaked open, and Hans grinned at the appearance of his mother and the orange cat in her arms.</p><p>“How is my son doing?” she asked, setting the tomcat on the ground. Hans raised his chest off the floor and raised his arms towards her; she sat next to him and pulled him into a hug. “I hope you’re well because your father is not. I dare say he shall weep when you blow out your candles tomorrow.”</p><p>“Grandfather Johannes says if Father cries too much, his eyes will dry out and will be forced to wear glasses.” Hans added, “Grandfather says that it’s not good that Papa cries easily.”</p><p>Mother ran a hand through her hair and shook her head. “Never mind your grandfather,” she said shortly. “He chatters too much. <em>I</em> like your father just the way he is; that should be enough. I’d much rather have a husband who cares so much about his children that his eyes glisten than one who can’t be bothered to attend their birthday parties. Speaking of birthdays,” she smiled mischievously, “tomorrow will be a memorable event, I am sure.”</p><p>“What do you mean by that?” said Hans, curious. But then a little voice whispered something awful in his head and he got nervous. “You haven’t…you haven’t promised me to anyone, have you?”</p><p>“What? No!” She began to laugh, and cupped her cheek with a gloved hand. Tears formed in her eyes as her laughter filled the room. “Of course, not! What a silly boy you are, goodness gracious. I have not – good Lord! – I have not promised you to anyone. The ideas that fill your heads are ridiculous; we must wait for at least six years for <em>that</em> to become a serious subject of discussion.”</p><p>He sighed in relief. Arendelle had two daughters, he heard, and while marrying the elder would make him king consort, Hans wanted to be a regnant. If he could not be that, then he should think he would rather one of his cousins. Klara and Sonja were both merry and fun, and he knew them better than those Arendellian girls.</p><p>With a quick glance towards Mandarin, Hans wondered if perhaps his wish was to come true tomorrow. <em>Maybe that’s why it will be memorable,</em> he thought. Asking Mother would be useless; she had a history of telling him one thing and then doing another, yet he allowed himself to hope.</p><p>***</p><p>Hans woke up surrounded by presents of every shape, size, and color the next morning. Thrilled and laughing, he immediately reached for a square-shaped present wrapped in crinkly blue paper, and ripped it open to reveal an anthology of poems from his fifth brother. His cousins Ruben and Klara burst through the room soon after – they must have heard the wrapping paper crumple – and demanded that he open their gift right that instant. Their eagerness excited him, and he wasted no moment to rip the pink tissue off a shallow box to see what was inside: a regiment of peg soldiers they painted themselves.</p><p>Before he could open the rest of the gifts (and there many), his mother walked in and sent his cousins out. She brought with her a freshly ironed outfit for him, and kept him company as he washed and dressed himself.</p><p>Hans – with his mother’s blessing – ran after his cousins to the kitchens. Breakfast consisted of buttered bread, fluffy pancakes, pork sausages, fried eggs, salted fish, and fruits from the gardens. Though the table was bursting at the seams with the food, all the plates were polished off clean by twenty-seven hungry people – more than half of whom were growing children.</p><p>They went playing afterwards and, as it was his birthday, Hans got to be the lord of the seas in the first round of the game. Today’s play was even more interesting since Father joined them in the gardens. Mother had banished him from the kitchens and the drawing room, claiming he got in the way of preparation.</p><p>Being exiled did not sour his mood, however, and the king happily played with them until the rain sent everyone running back inside.</p><p>Mother’s words echoed in Hans’ head during a pause in the revelries – Cousin Klara had tripped over her skirts, landed face-first onto the floor, and currently cried in pain – and he snuck back into his room with a desire to figure out what she meant by ‘memorable’. The toys and books he received were wonderful; he already fell in love with them, but they were hardly more special than what he got last year.</p><p>He lifted and inspected a snow globe he received from Jules when Mother startled him. “Hansi,” she said, “I was looking everywhere for you. Why are you hiding here?”</p><p>“Klara’s crying and it felt rude to play while she’s sad. And I am not hiding,” he said curtly. “I am…pondering.”</p><p>“Pondering?”</p><p>“Pondering!” He hugged his plush horse. “What did you mean by saying that this day will be ‘particularly memorable’? I’ve been <em>pondering</em> about it the whole night and day.”</p><p>A smile bloomed on her face like sunshine and she pulled him up from where he lay, talking of how the ‘little friend’ needed time to adjust to the Southern Isles. Her joy spread to him and it soared even higher upon his father’s having joined them.</p><p>They walked out the kitchen door, and Hans wasted no time to jump into a pile of red-gold leaves. No pleasant crunch came from the jump, and the boy, disappointed, looked up at the sky. It was cold and empty, sad and dark and blue. Hans sometimes envied his brothers who were born in the summer, when the days were long and bright.</p><p>A warm, large hand tugged at the collar of his waistcoat, and he turned to see his father chuckling. “You’re too young to be melancholic. Save it for when you’re a twenty-year-old with too much free time on your hands.”</p><p>“Will I be like Henrik?”</p><p>“Henrik is not melancholic,” said Father, gently pushing him forward. “Henrik’s just disgruntled. Constantly.”</p><p>The birthday boy giggled: his fifth brother was often annoyed at everything. Spirits improved, he picked up a few of the pretty leaves and asked where they were going. When he was told that they were going to the stables, Hans grinned and asked if he will be allowed to ride his mother’s black-and-white mare.</p><p>Mother lifted the hem of her skirt as she stepped over a puddle. “No, my dear.”</p><p>He raised a brow, and asked her question after question; but she remained silent, though there was a mischievous smirk on her lips. They continued to chitchat idly until the stables and its master appeared in view. The stablemaster, who was a thin, bitter-looking man with flaxen hair, narrowed his green eyes at Hans and grumbled under his breath about bothering the horses (a lie; the horses loved him). Although he would usually tell the little prince to go elsewhere, this time he bowed courteously to Mother and Father and let them into the stables.</p><p>The horses snorted and chuffed at the sight of him. Hans knew all of the horses by name and kept them company during the stablemaster’s absence. They loved him, and he loved them back. He walked over to Kasper – his eldest’s stallion – and giggled when he licked his cheek to Mother’s dismay. She cleaned his face with a cream handkerchief, then told him he must unlock the second-to-last stall gate. </p><p>“Why?”</p><p>Father folded his arms and Mother pressed a finger to her lips, both smiling with their eyes. The former ruffled his hair while the latter said, “Hans, you’re a stubborn boy and we are rewarding you for it this one time.”</p><p>A sudden realization dawned upon Hans and he bolted towards the stall. He nearly cut his hand when yanking off the metal chain, sending the gate flying and revealing the most perfect creature in the world.</p><p>From up the hall he could hear Father laughing, but he ignored everything beside the handsome foal in front of him. Hans approached the baby slowly, slower than he ever had in his life, and raised his hand to pet it. Mindfully, he waited for it to come to him itself and, while it did so, admired it. Fjord horses were rare in Konigsburg – although he read that they were more common in rural regions – and Hans was so pleased by the fact that they will stand out together when riding.</p><p>“Hello,” he whispered to the horse. “What’s your name?”</p><p>The horse tilted its head to the side.</p><p>Hans jumped at the feeling of two large hands on his shoulders and turned to see his beaming father and amused mother. The little horse raised its ear at their appearance and must have decided that Hans was trustworthy since it pressed its snout against his hand, eliciting a giggle of pleasure from him.</p><p>“It is yours,” said Mother warmly. “We would have introduced you sooner had it not been so restless upon arrival. The stablemaster will teach you how to care for it properly.”</p><p>“As for its name,” added Father, “it does not have it yet. We hoped you would be the one to bestow it upon it.”</p><p><em>What a difficult task!</em> thought Hans soberly. Names were nothing trivial and horses could live up to thirty years; he needed to come up with something respectable. He cast another glance at his new best friend and reflected on the names of his toy horses, especially of dear Mandarin, wondering if there was a theme.</p><p>His horse meanwhile fluttered its lashes and tried to eat the lace hem of Mother’s dress.</p><p>“I know!” exclaimed Hans, spooking the other three. He clapped his hands and cried out: “Sitron! Your name is to be Sitron!”</p><p>The horse – Sitron – chortled happily and pressed his head against Hans’ own while Mother furrowed her brows. “Sitron?” she repeated. “You want to name him after a fruit?”</p><p>“I like it,” said Father instantly. “Just be careful that Mandarin does not become jealous.”</p><p>“My heart has plenty of space for a hundred horses, even a thousand!” Hans wrapped his arms around Sitron’s neck and thanked his parents profusely.</p><p>Sitron neighed in agreement.</p><p>“Alright, alright,” said Mother, reaching for her handkerchief again. “It is- <em>Sitron</em> is very young and must get his rest. As for you, little man, I dare say the time to have supper and blow out candles is drawing near. Let’s return to the party. You can come see your friend tomorrow after breakfasting.”</p><p>He was loath to part with Sitron, but Hans relented under the promise of lemon cake and wished his friend good night. “I’ll come before breakfast, too,” he whispered into his ear and waved him goodbye.</p><p>Outside the stables, the boy thanked his parents again and cried in delight when his father unexpectedly scooped him up into his arms, wishing him a happy birthday and all the imaginable happiness to Sitron and him.</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>